


Bloodstream

by Gefionne



Series: Dissonant Verses [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cullen POV, F/M, High Sex, Kind of tame for E but whatever, Lyrium Addiction, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-25
Updated: 2015-06-25
Packaged: 2018-04-06 01:51:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4203411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gefionne/pseuds/Gefionne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cullen takes lyrium to help him get through the final battles. With heightened senses, he enjoys a passionate moment with the Inquisitor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bloodstream

_I've been looking for a lover_  
_Thought I'd find her in a bottle._  
_God, make me another one,_  
_I'll be feeling this tomorrow._  
_Lord, forgive me for the things I've done._  
_I was never meant to hurt no one._

_I feel the chemicals burn in my bloodstream,  
So tell me when it kicks in._

\- Ed Sheeran, "Bloodstream"

His hands are shaking. He can barely see, his eyes are burning and his vision will not clear not matter how much he blinks. The box, cradling its blue poison, beckons to him from the corner of his desk. He is aching for the release it would bring him, his soul twisted with visceral need.

“I need you at your best,” she croons against his ear. And he knows it’s true. He was a fool to think he could abandon the lyrium now of all moments. He wanted to conquer it, to vanquish the want, but instead it bears down on him in a ceaseless barrage.

“When this is all over,” she says, “I will help you stop. We’ll go away from here and you’ll never need to take it again, but tonight…” She trails off, her hands guiding his face up so that he meets her eyes. “Do this one last time, Cullen.”

It’s easy to give in when she’s telling him that he should, when she’s crossing the room and opening the box, pouring a portion of azure powder into a cup and then filling it with wine. She presses the vessel into his hands and her lips to his.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

He should be too, but he’s not. In one long pull, the draught is gone, sliding down his throat, liquid salvation. He feels it pooling, hot in the pit of his empty stomach. Letting his head fall back, he draws air deep into his lungs. As it passes over his tongue, he can taste the acrid lamp oil, the charcoal of ink from the missives, the little nuances that were dulled without the lyrium in his veins. The room around him comes alive, sliding into focus as his vision is rimmed with blue. He can see every detail of the books on the shelves, their gilt spines winking at him in the firelight. He can smell the mustiness of the ancient tower, the smoke from the torches, but most of all he can smell _her_.

Her scent is a mix of sandalwood and earth, though beneath it lies the musk of her skin. She’s saying something to him, but he cannot hear the words. The lyrium burns through his bloodstream, sensitizing his fingers. There is a different ache in him now, a new wanting.

Crossing the space between them, he buries his hands in her hair. He can feel each strand brushing against his skin, making him shudder. As his fingertips graze over the skin of her neck, he feels the blood drop to his loins. He wants to have her like this. If this is going to be last time he takes the poison, he is not going to waste it.

Trailing his hands down along the front of her tunic, he traces the swell of her bosom. She draws in a sharp breath, which only serves to push her breasts into his palms. He kneads the flesh, though only for a moment before his fingers stray to the clasps of her tunic.

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” she says, but he silences her with a kiss. His lips burn pleasantly where they touch hers. He nips at her bottom lip until she opens for him. She chewed mint leaves before she came to him, he can taste the coolness in her mouth.

“Undress,” he growls as he takes her earlobe between his teeth.

“Cullen, no,” she says. “You’re not yourself.”

“I need this,” he says as he presses her back against the wall. He rolls his hips into her, making sure she feels his hardness.

“Maker,” she hisses.

“Leave Him out of this,” he says, nudging her thighs apart so that he can slide his hand between them. “This is between you and me. Now, _undress_ or I will do it for you and I will not spare your fine clothes.”

She heeds him this time. He watches for a moment as she fumbles with the buttons and ties. There is a blue halo around her. It tingles against his skin as he touches her hair. Looking down at his hand, he sees a cobalt residue there, but it quickly fades. None of it is real, of course, but the lyrium in his blood makes him see all manner of things that are not really there. It’s not easy to forget the rush of euphoria, the heightened senses that come with a draught like this. When he first began to take it, he had learned that it intensified certain sensations, heightened his release. He has taken himself in hand many times in the afterglow of the rush, but never before has he been with another.

His erection is almost painful now, pressing tightly against the laces of his breeches. With a growl, he tears at them until they break free. He pushes the wool down his legs, though he does not bother to remove it completely. He turns back to her. She is standing bare before him, her skin radiant in the firelight.

“Perfection,” he says as he grasps her buttocks. She frowns at him, but he kisses her until her expression softens again. The air around them is charged like the sky just before a storm. He feels himself pulsing with each beat of his heart.

“Do you want me?” he asks as he slips his hand between her legs. She is already slick with desire, but she answers him anyway, “I want you, Cullen.”

“Good,” he says as he turns her back to him and pushes her down over his desk. He knocks the box that contained the last of his lyrium to the floor, where it splinters. The sound echoes over and over in his ears, a reprise of his past missteps, but he refuses to listen, not now, not when she is asking him, begging him to take her.

When he slides inside, the room wavers before his eyes, the edges tinged with blue. She feels like molten silk around him and he wants nothing more than to remain like this, buried within her, a part of her. But he withdraws with painful slowness, ensuring that she feels all of him before burying himself to the hilt once again. She cries out his name, her voice shattering him like glass.

He drives into her with desperation and hunger, though his lips upon her neck are soft. He circles the peaks of her breasts with the fingers of one hand while the other goes to her center, stroking against her in time with his thrusts. He is clumsy, he thinks, but far too lost in the sensation of her muscles tightening around him to concern himself with anything more than frantic fumbling. It satisfies her, though, it seems, for not a moment later, her spine arches and her body goes taut. Arching blue light refracts around her as her cries pierce the night.

He pulls her to him as he follows her into ecstasy. It tears through him, a torrent of poisoned pleasure. He collapses against her, his chest heaving as he gasps for breath. He is afraid for a moment that it will never be better than this, that every time after will only be a shadow. But he finds that he doesn’t care. In time his senses will dull again and he will forget all about this feeling. She will help him stop, she promised she would. But until then, one more azure-tinted memory couldn't hurt.


End file.
